


Interlude: Wendigo

by leonidaslion



Series: Berserker [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Gen, Spirit Animals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-25
Updated: 2011-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 02:04:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I mean, that much we know for sure, right?” Sam continued, his voice low and on edge. “He woulda left us a message—a sign—right?”</p><p>Dean couldn’t look at Sam. Had to look away as he imagined what kind of sign Dad would have left if he had been here. Was he far enough gone to be leaving bodies behind him now?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude: Wendigo

“Nobody likes a skeptic, Roy,” Dean commented as he finished the last symbol. He glanced out at the dark woods, hoped like hell that this Anasazi shit would work the way it was supposed to, and then looked over at his brother. Sam was sitting in the shadows away from the fire, and if he hadn’t had his back against a huge tree, Dean would have barked at him to get closer to the light. He still felt himself tense with worry because the wendigo could be anywhere, and considering how fast it moved, even having his back protected wouldn’t give Sam much more warning than a blur.

Sam poked at the ground moodily with a stick—hell, these days the kid was _breathing_ moodily. Dean sighed inwardly and moved across their small camp to sit next to his brother: he’d let this go on for far too long already.

“So you wanna tell me what’s going on in that freaky head of yours?” he asked bluntly.

Sam shook his head slightly and something like a cross between exhaustion and annoyance slipped across his face. Jerk was going to brush him off again.

“Dean—” Sam started.

“No, you’re not fine,” Dean cut in. He kept his voice smooth and soft, trying to coax Sam into actually talking about it. This kind of shit had been a whole lot easier before Stanford. Back when he could read Sam better: when he knew what his little brother was thinking almost before he knew it himself. “You’re like a powder keg, man; it’s not like you.” And then, in an attempt at lightheartedness, he added, “I’m supposed to be the belligerent one, remember?”

Sam just sat there for a moment, turned away and staring out into the night. Dean was starting to think he might have to poke his brother to get him going again when Sam said, “Dad’s not here.”

 _And thank God for that._ Sam wasn’t looking at him, but Dean kept his face schooled anyway. Mostly out of habit: after these last few hellish years, he wasn’t sure he knew how to let down the walls anymore.

“I mean, that much we know for sure, right?” Sam continued, his voice low and on edge. “He woulda left us a message—a sign—right?”

Dean couldn’t look at Sam. Had to look away as he imagined what kind of sign Dad would have left if he _had_ been here. Was he far enough gone to be leaving bodies behind him now?

But Sam was waiting for a response, so Dean shoved the image of mutilated flesh aside. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” He hesitated, and then admitted, “Tell you the truth, I don’t think Dad’s ever been to Lost Creek.”

Dean looked over at his brother, searching the fire-lit line of his jaw to see how Sam would take that news. Maybe he’d be fine with it. Maybe he’d give up this chasing after Dad idea and they could just … could just do this. Yeah, and maybe Dean would chuck hunting and become a tax collector.

Sam glanced back at him finally, and the expression on his face—some horrible mixture of exhaustion and determination and a low burning anger—made Dean’s heart sink. Then Sam was turning away again, restless.

“Then let’s get these people back to town,” he urged. “And let’s hit the road.”

It hurt to hear and as Sam started to look back, Dean turned his own head away. He couldn’t meet his brother’s eyes when Sam was talking about leaving Tommy Collins to whatever fate he’d stumbled into up here. Way Dean saw it, that would make them murderers, and just as guilty for the guy’s death as the wendigo.

“Go find Dad,” Sam was adding, agitation and anger leaking out into his urgent whispers. “I mean why are we still even here?”

 _Because this matters,_ Dean thought. _And because if we found Dad, then this wendigo would look like a fucking picnic._ But he couldn’t tell Sam about Dad—couldn’t tell Sam about the wolf and the bear and that horrible night in New Orleans that still plagued his dreams.

After a moment of hesitation, he concentrated on the first reason, trying to remind Sam of something he should never have forgotten. Trying to remind him of lives saved: of the duty they had to protect these people. Trying to find his way to the brother he remembered because the man across from him was far too much like their father for Dean’s peace of mind.

Then, when Sam pressed the issue, trying not to break down and shake his brother and yell at him to shut up about Dad already.

 _He doesn’t know,_ Dean reminded himself, and he dropped his head so that Sam wouldn’t see the helpless anger in his eyes.


End file.
